


Who I've always been

by euromagpie



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Everything Hurts, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Panic Attacks, Young Bruce, alfred is the best fucking father figure you could hope for, allusions to self harm, basically every horrible thing you can think of, but it gets better, trans!Bruce, when you hate yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euromagpie/pseuds/euromagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alfred had taken him shopping for his first bra, Bruce had locked himself in the changing room, a panic attack sending him into a fit of tears. He didn’t even know what the problem was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who I've always been

When he was young, 12, he’d signed himself up for shock-therapy. Alfred hadn’t known, of course, but with the Wayne money at his fingertips, Bruce hadn’t needed adult permission to undergo the treatment. It didn’t matter. Six months, and nothing had happened, he wasn’t _fixed_. All he’d got for his money was blackouts and tremors for weeks after discontinuing. He hadn’t known what to do, he didn’t know what was _wrong with him_.

Back when his parents were still alive, when his gym kit was labelled ‘Florence Wayne’, when he’d had to wear a skirt to his lessons, his parents had made sure to introduce him to feminism. They’d taken his tendency to dress in boys’ clothes as a sign of insecurity. Both Martha and Thomas had sat him down, told him that he could be powerful even if he wore makeup and took the time to make his hair look nice (god, how he’d hated his locks – not that they were long; he’d liked running his hands through it, but that everyone took one look at his ponytail and shut him into the box labelled ‘girl’). Bruce had thought he’d finally be able to overcome this sense of not belonging. After all, his parents knew best, no? Bruce hadn’t liked to play with the girls during break-time. Maybe it was a psychological result of being told that being a girl was to be weak. Now that he knew it wasn’t true, he could make his parents proud. Forcibly, he’d shut that part of himself away, that told him that society’s view of girls wasn’t the problem, it was being a girl that felt so wrong.

It got worse after his parents died. Not only did depression set in, leading him to battle with anorexia and insomnia, but he felt a crushing pressure to live up to what Thomas and Martha had expected of him. In a fit of rage, the feelings of guilt, of betrayal and of worthlessness welling up and spilling out of him, he’d burned all his male clothes and items. Anything that wasn’t appropriate for a girl to handle – his basketball, his dinosaur-decorated notebook, his black and blue trainers, even his poster of Zorro over his bed – they’d all ended up in a metal waste paper basket, lit up with one of Alfred’s lighters. He’d watched the red sparks flutter into the air, the waves of heat rolling over his arms, and the lead ball in his stomach seemed to melt under the overwhelming feeling of relief. It was over. This freakish feeling of disassociation from everything society told him he needed to be, could be left behind. He would start over again, and he would make his parents proud.

Of course it didn’t work. Puberty added to the turmoil of his life, and he’d shut off every time he saw his blouses stretch over his developing breasts. When Alfred had taken him shopping for his first bra, Bruce had locked himself in the changing room, a panic attack sending him into a fit of tears. He didn’t even know what the problem was. He was rich, he was gaining the weight he lost, Alfred looked after him like a father; he was lucky on so many accounts. What did he have to be anxious about?

It kept happening. There would be periods of days or weeks where life passed as enjoyable for him. Eventually though, it would always result in a bout of self-loathing so intense he wondered if he wasn’t going crazy.

It was a couple of days after his fourteenth birthday when Alfred stepped in.

 

Xxxxx

 

A sharp series of knocks interrupted Bruce as he struggled through the history of America’s Civil War. He always imagined American history to be an endurance test – anyone who got a good grade in a subject that compels you to sleep within five minutes of studying is some kind of genius.

“Miss Florence?” Alfred’s voice asked through the door.

“Yeah, yeah, hold on a second!” Bruce called. Poking his tongue out of his mouth, he highlighted a final bullet point and capped his pen. “Come in!” He called.

Alfred opened the door slowly, almost tentatively, which put Bruce immediately on edge. In his experience, Alfred was only hesitant when he was about to bring up a very personal conversation or if someone had died. Bruce had run out of all options for the latter. He almost wished there was some kind of estranged aunt who had popped her clogs, just so he didn’t have to face the coming conversation. They were almost always unnecessarily drawn out and ended up with both parties close to crying of flushing furiously, but Alfred would always power through to the end, not letting Bruce escape until all t’s were crossed and all i’s were dotted. The last time had been about Bruce getting his period, which resulted in Bruce locking himself in the bathroom and Alfred shouting half the conversation though the locked door.

Sure enough, Alfred’s arms were devoid of towels or drinks or any number of items he could have reason to enter Bruce’s room to deliver. Making a beeline for Bruce’s bed, Alfred tentatively settled himself on the cover, absently smoothing the Egyptian cotton sheets with one hand. With a resigned expression on his face, Bruce swivelled his office chair, folding his legs as he faced his guardian across the suddenly vast five feet of carpet.

“What’s up?” He asked. Bruce noted Alfred’s eye twitching at the informal language, but with an impressive amount of self-control, he seemed to shelve that sentence for another day, in favour of addressing the elephant in the room.

“Florence…are you…happy?” Alfred put forth, now twisting his fingers together.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Bruce licked his lips.

“Uh, why?”.

Alfred just looked at him.

“I- yes? Of course I am, Alfred. You do so much for me, my grades high, they’re bringing out a Three Musketeers movie-“

“That’s not what I meant” Alfred all but snapped. Bruce swallowed, tugging at one of his black locks as he watched him massage his forehead with one hand.

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been having more regular attacks, Miss” He started again.

Bruce tried to laugh, scuffing his feet over the carpet, avoiding Alfred’s eyes.

“You know me, I’ve been having these…moments since I was a kid” He said.

“That is what concerns me. While I’m sure they had every good intention, your mother and father could be very…set in their ways, even when it’s not appropriate in certain situations”.

Suddenly Bruce was angry. His hands fisted in his jeans.

“Alfred, don’t talk about my parents like that. They knew what they were talking ab-“.

“Not always. Miss Florence, your parents weren’t infalliable, god rest their souls” Alfred interrupted. He sighed.

“Do you remember, when you were seven, and we went to Los Angeles. You and I went shopping while your parents went to oversee the construction of the Wayne Shelters? When we got to the clothing shop, you ran immediately to the boys’ section. I’d never seen you so happy when you tried on Teenage Turtles shirts and Gotham Guardsman caps. You said you’d be the best player on the team when you grew up,” Alfred said, looking wistful.

“Stop it, Alfred” Bruce begged, trying not to cry. He was dredging up all the memories Bruce had fought against for years.

“and then you saw that boy in another isle and begged me to take you to the hairdresser to get your hair done like his-“

“Shut up, shut up, stop talking about that!” He finally screamed, clamping his hands over his ears, screwing his eyes shut. The way Alfred had talked about it, with such fondness and love for his young charge, it was like pouring gasoline over a small flame. The need to tell someone about this disease inside him had turned into a roaring inferno, burning his mouth as he clamped his teeth together against the urge.

Suddenly he felt a warm, gentle grip on his wrists. When he opened his eyes, he came face to face with Alfred, kneeling in front of him, looking at him with such sadness, Bruce started tearing up all over again.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Alfred asked, gently, not pressuring him. Bruce shook his head violently.

“No, it’s disgusting, you’ll hate me-“ Before he could finish his sentence, Alfred had enveloped him in a tight hug. Instinctually, Bruce gripped onto the back of his butler’s shirt, bunching the material in his fists, head buried in the white fabric. He didn’t want to look at Alfred.

“No matter what you feel, I could never be disgusted by you, my dear child. Nothing on this earth or beyond, nobody with ever, and I mean _ever_ , make me think any less of you. I’m proud of you, no matter your secrets” Alfred told him. Bruce couldn’t see, but he thought his butler sounded chocked up too.

He couldn’t stay quiet anymore. Bruce, after six years, spoke those words he’d always felt.

“I’m not a girl” He said, simply.

For a moment, Alfred said nothing. Bruce held his breath, fearful that Alfred would dismiss him or that he thought he was sick, or crazy. Bruce didn’t want to go to Arkham.

“Ok. It’s ok, Master Wayne” Alfred said.

Finally, Bruce cried. He cried out every self-destructive thought he’d had, every glance at Alfred’s straight razor, every time he felt like puking just from looking in his wardrobe. In the arms of his butler, Bruce cried out years of self-hatred, and when he finally felt empty and tired, he was the happiest he’d ever been.


End file.
